


the depths of summer

by justlikeswitchblades



Series: ivy and concrete [4]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 13:06:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10764876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeswitchblades/pseuds/justlikeswitchblades
Summary: It's the middle of July, and Aomine has no right being this sweaty before the game has even started.





	the depths of summer

**Author's Note:**

> AUs on AUs on AUs ft. baseball, midorima at touou, and also a year younger than aomine! i can't thank richer enough for the wonderful headcanon jams about this universe...let's hope i can get something else out on 5/6!

It's the middle of July, and Aomine has no right being this sweaty before the game has even started. 

They’ve driven out to suburban Kōfu for a day game, and with humidity like this, the view of Mt. Fuji in the distance only serves to make Aomine more miserable. He could use some of that mountain snow to cool down; the shade of the dugout does a little to abate the heat, but not enough. 

The diamond is lit up harsh and bright, but Aomine still squints out at home plate. Midorima's standing out there, practicing his swing. Slow, methodical, pausing every half second to adjust. Aomine looks over the span of his back, eyes dropping down his spine to his ass. The black of the Touou uniform swallows up the sunlight, so the finer details are lost, but the fabric hugs his lower body flawlessly, ass, thighs, curves of his calves all illuminated. It’s a view worth not retreating into the air conditioning of the bus for. He shifts on the bench, passing a hand over his crotch to adjust his cup.

Midorima walks back down into the dugout, catching the brim of Aomine’s backwards-facing cap up in his fingers. He drags it slowly up the back of his head, slow enough for Aomine to fight him off, if he felt like it. He doesn’t, and the cap tumbles off his head onto the floor.

“I can feel you staring,” Midorima says, sitting down on the bench beside Aomine. He takes off his sunglasses, polarized lenses flashing yellow as he wipes at his cheeks with his jersey.

Aomine picks his cap back up, dusting it off. It's the middle of the season, and a sunburn has bloomed over Midorima’s nose and cheeks, pink dusting the tops of his ears. It's not as bright as it was after their first game, but the color still makes Aomine think of how easily Midorima blushes. He wants to kiss him, to see how much more red his cheeks can get. But their teammates are hovering nearby, and he's got waning energy that he's trying to conserve for the game, anyways.

The opposing team is up to bat first. Aomine walks to the mound winding his arm; he's loose, but his pitches feel heavy, weighed down by the humidity. This would be easier if it were a night game—it’s always easier for him to focus during night games. 

Thankfully, the batter isn't expecting a slower pitch, and swings too early. But by the third pitch, he's expecting it, and sends the ball to the outfield. Aomine grimaces, turning to watch its trajectory. Midorima is jogging back. His jump doesn't seem to have that much power in it, but he floats up into the air effortlessly, ball hitting his glove with a satisfying smack. The runner is already at first, no plans to steal any further. Midorima tosses the ball to Aomine with an easy grace. Aomine runs his thumb along the seam. He nods at Wakamatsu behind home plate, and tugs down the brim of his cap.

Aomine stands with his arms crossed on the dugout railing, nearly leaning onto the field as Midorima walks up to home plate. He draws a line in the dirt with the toe of his cleat, stands on top of it. His knees bend—god, what a beautiful sight—and raises the bat up over his shoulder. The pitcher lets one go, fast and to the far left corner of the box, so quick it's almost an error, making Midorima hop back. The umpire doesn’t call it; Sakurai shuffles his feet, skittish on third base. The other runners retreat back to their bases; even in an achingly slow game, it's hard not to perk up at the prospect of Midorima bringing them home. Aomine glances over his shoulder at Coach; there's a furrow in his brow, but he's not in the mood to challenge it and delay the game any further in this heat. Midorima settles into his stance again, adjusting his grip.

Perhaps to compensate for his first pitch, the next pitch comes right into the middle of the strike zone—and Aomine laughs. There's something refreshing about Midorima's swing, a musicality in the way the baseball pings off his aluminum bat in particular that has never failed to revive him. And, well, maybe it sounds like all other bats do at the end of the day, but he's not going to knock himself for being romantic.

Midorima starts down the first base line, nose wrinkling as he watches the ball sail. It still has a few centimeters on the outfielder’s glove before it passes over the fence, but it could've been higher. His pace picks up, and he dutifully jogs around the bases. Aomine claps him on the ass when he gets back to the dugout—purely congratulatory this time. The corner of Midorima’s mouth lifts with a smile.

***

They win easily with ten runs to zero, though the sun still looks like it's barely dropped in the sky from when they first arrived. Midorima takes a seat on the bus by the window. Aomine plops down next to him, throwing an arm around his shoulders. 

“You did so good!” He grins, fluffing up Midorima's cap hair. “I'm proud of you, babe.”

“Save it for the next game,” Midorima cranes his neck away from Aomine’s right hand. He adjusts his glasses, but doesn't shrug off the arm around his shoulders. “My runs were passable at best.”

“Okay, but you still _scored,_ ” Aomine raises his eyebrows in emphasis. “I don't see how you can be upset about that.”

“Cancer ranked seventh today,” Midorima eyes the daruma in the seatback pocket. “I was only compensating for what fate dealt me.”

“The middle of the road is still pretty damn good for you,” Aomine clicks his tongue, and swears he sees Midorima's lips twitch. “How did Virgo rank?”

“First,” Midorima closes his eyes, smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Despite my poor lot, I was confident in our victory.”

“Nice to have the universe helping me with a shutout,” Aomine hums in approval, gaze dropping to Midorima's lips. “But it probably doesn't hurt being such a good pitcher, too.”

“I wish you'd stop doing that.”

“What, having more faith in myself than something I can't control?”

“No,” Midorima looks at him. “Stating the obvious.”

Aomine breathes out a laugh. He licks his lips, tongue slowly sliding over the top, then the bottom. He squeezes Midorima’s shoulder, urging him closer. Midorima looks at him with half-lidded eyes, lips parting.

“Later,” He exhales at the last second, gaze fixing to some unseen spot on the ceiling. His voice is soft and strained and just a little bit breathless, and Aomine sighs back into his seat, chest both light and heavy at once. He pulls his arm back, wiping at his warmed face with his palm. Midorima’s cheeks look more pink now, too.

Aomine feels something on his thigh. He glances down, sees Midorima's hand, fingertips brushing the fabric of his pants. It's a small gesture, asking for forgiveness, offering reassurance, imposing just a hint of his own want—and it makes Aomine smile. He hooks their pinkies together, then waits. Midorima leans his head on his shoulder.

***

Aomine rubs at the back of his neck, sore after nodding off on the bus ride home. The strap of his bag has always bit into his shoulder, but it always stings more noticeably after games, bat bumping into his thigh as he walks. He unlocks the door, walking into the cool air conditioning of his dorm—thankful that he won _that_ argument with Midorima—and lowers his bag to the entryway floor. Midorima does the same, closing the door behind him. It’s darker now, having left the blinds half drawn, but the sun is still spilling in, golden in the late afternoon

“I said later,” Midorima says after a beat, standing up from unlacing his shoes. He wets his lips. “It's later now.”

“Yeah, okay, let me just free myself from my sweat prison here,” Aomine mutters, distracted as he fidgets with his belt. He pulls his cup out of his pants with a sigh of relief, placing it on the half wall that separates the entryway from the room's sad excuse of a kitchenette. His hands hover on his waistband for a moment, and then he shoves his pants down his thighs, compression shorts and jock and all, flaccid cock mostly obscured in the ends of his jersey that come spilling out. He leans back on his elbows against the wall, stretching his legs out, flexing his feet in his high socks. He opens his palm, and Midorima steps closer, slotting their fingers together. 

“You did good,” Aomine smiles at Midorima, warm, squeezing his hand. “You know that, right?” 

Midorima nods, pupils blown wide.

“Good!” Aomine chirps with a grin. “It's important to me that you know that.”

Aomine stands back up straight, clasped hands falling to his side. He reaches for Midorima's left hand, fumbling a little as he works off Midorima’s batting glove with one hand.

“If it's just an okay day, or even a bad one, I need you to know that you're still talented,” Aomine sets the glove behind him on the half wall. He guides Midorima’s hand underneath the loose folds of his jersey, closing his eyes at the feeling of Midorima’s palm on his cock. “You need to have that kind of confidence if you want to take my role as the ace.”

“I'm not trying to steal—”

“No, you're not,” Aomine grips Midorima's wrist, steadying himself as he rises onto his toes to kiss him. “You're earning it.”

“I wonder,” Midorima kisses him back, a softer brush of his lips compared to the depth in Aomine's kiss. “What makes you think I don’t have that kind of confidence?”

Aomine snorts, admitting his error. He kisses a line back from Midorima’s lips to his jaw. tasting the salt of Midorima’s dried sweat on his skin. Aomine leans into Midorima, when he tilts his head for easy access, keeping him upright when he takes a step back. Aomine feels the nervous tension in Midorima, but Midorima's fingers close around his cock, starting to relax. Aomine presses his hips into his hand, savoring it for a moment, then pulls back. He drops Midorima's hand and pulls his pants back up, tucking his jersey back into his waistband. He takes Midorima’s waist in his hands, and Midorima twists to face the wall under his touch. 

“ _Oh,_ now this is what I'm here for,” Aomine moans, breath hot against Midorima's sunburnt neck as he grabs two handfuls of his ass, pressing close. Midorima makes a strangled noise in his throat, but Aomine can still see how bright his cheeks get. It makes Aomine grin.

Aomine steers Midorima close to the wall, watching him put his hands on it, bending at the waist. He presses up against Midorima, arms sliding around him so his hands are on his chest, and bucks his hips right against his ass. He starts out slow, the musty damp feeling still lingering in his crotch, but it's steadily replaced by a different kind of heat in his stomach, the friction of fabric sliding on fabric and how perfectly he seems to slot into Midorima even when he's still sporting nothing more than a semi—it's nothing less than heavenly. It makes Aomine moan, but he tries not to exaggerate it too much; masking the hitches in Midorima's breath would be a crime against himself. 

“You did so good today, baby,” Aomine purrs, voice going sweet as he kisses the back of Midorima’s neck. He slides a hand down, tapping the plastic of Midorima’s cup at the front of his pants. “Want to be freed of this yet?”

“Please,” Midorima whines, a strain of something raw in his voice. Aomine laughs, fond and aroused all the same as his other hand falls to work at his belt.

“I wouldn't have stopped you if you did it yourself,” Aomine coos, dropping the cup to the floor; Midorima twists around in his arms to face him. Aomine’s hand goes to Midorima's crotch, easing him out of his waistband, and he curses under his breath when he sees how hard Midorima is, pale skin already vibrant and rosy against the tan of his fingers. He carefully pulls Midorima’s waistband back up, taking a moment to admire how the fabric tents around him, fingers trailing over his length. Midorima bites his lip, pressing his hips into Aomine’s hand. Aomine pulls his hand back—just so Midorima opens his eyes enough to watch—and starts unbuttoning Midorima's jersey. His eyes drift down over Midorima’s body, how his blush seems to creep down his neck, coloring even the exposed part of his chest.

“Aomine—”

“Oh, you're okay,” He reassures him, rising onto his toes again to kiss him. His hands settle on Midorima’s shoulders; Midorima grips his waist, keeping Aomine in place while he pushes his tongue past Midorima’s parted lips, sliding over his tongue and teeth. Aomine can feel the head of Midorima's cock pressing against his stomach; he lifts his hips into him at the feeling, his own cock throbbing at the contact, and Midorima moans into his mouth. Aomine separates just a little, enough so he can fit his hand between the two of them. His fingers curl loosely around Midorima’s cock.

“Go on,” Aomine urges, pecking at Midorima's lips. Midorima exhales a shallow breath, meets Aomine’s gaze. Aomine smiles again, jerking his chin in a small nod.

Midorima starts out thrusting slow into his hand, but it doesn't take long for him to pick up speed, tossing his head back, gripping Aomine's wrist with both hands to keep flush against him. Aomine gives in, indulging him with a squeeze, and then carefully starts prying his fingers away. 

“Trust me,” Aomine insists when Midorima protests, sinking to his knees. “I know you don't wanna make a mess.” 

He takes Midorima in to the back of his throat, though not in as swift a movement as he’d prefer, gagging and working his jaw about halfway through. But Midorima doesn't seem to notice or care, eyes closed, hands clamped over his mouth. With a few bobs of Aomine’s head, he comes in his mouth, and Aomine takes his time pulling back, savoring how Midorima's shaft glistens, the soft pop of his lips when Midorima's finally free of his mouth. He stands up, spits in the sink, and walks back over to Midorima.

“Fuck me,” Aomine moans, his own head lolling back when he slips his hand into his pants. “Rock hard.”

Midorima wets his lips, fingers dipping into Aomine’s waistband.

“Hey,” Aomine’s voice goes to a whisper, meeting Midorima’s eyes as he cups the back of his neck. “Don't suck me off unless you really want to, okay?”

Midorima swallows with a nod. He seems to relax a little more under those words, though, a smile tugging at his lips as he rolls Aomine's waistband down his thighs. 

Midorima’s left hand is immeasurably soft—softer than silk or satin, probably, though it's not like Aomine’s touched either of those recently. It's soft like the worn, fuzzy patches on his glove, the leather tight on his fingers but he still won't even consider the thought of throwing it out. Midorima pumps Aomine with a firm grip and careful twists of his wrist, but there's nothing cold in it. His thumb strokes over Aomine’s tip, and it isn't long until Aomine comes in his hand, fingertips pressing at the back of his neck, a moan sneaking into the lighter register of his voice. His hand drops to Midorima’s forearm, smoothing over the hairs there, staring at the come that's spilled out onto his wrist.

“Okay,” Aomine pecks Midorima on the cheek decisively, though he lets his hand linger on his arm before dropping away. “You shower first. We can get dinner when I’m done.”

“Don't get my bed all sweaty when I'm in there.” Aomine freezes in the middle of lowering his bare ass to the bottom bunk. He dares to squat a centimeter lower. Midorima posits a glare.

“Kidding,” Aomine stands up, raising his hands. “I'll try my best.”

Midorima reaches up for a second, pauses. Then he turns around, adjusting his glasses with his right hand.


End file.
